Let's Talk About Sex
by Alphabet Pie
Summary: Happy 411 Day 4/11/11! This is what happens when I try to write smut at two o'clock in the morning. Horribly rushed, but enjoy. There will be more. Explanations to follow. 411, lemon.
1. Hook Up Number One

For late evening, it's surprisingly warm, if a little brisk from the chill of the wind: it plays with Vexen's hair as he takes this beautiful stranger's hand to pull himself from the smooth leather interior of a sleek and fanciful car, makes the trees whisper with secrets and the tumbling leaves of autumn cascade in slopes to the ground.

Vexen has been feeling self conscious all evening, from the tiny creases in his shirt that the iron just wouldn't smooth away to the vegetarian dish he picked from the menu in a fit of healthy neurosis to every word that slipped from his mouth during their otherwise pleasant evening, but never more so than when _Marluxia__Francis__Harcélle_, still daintily holding Vexen's hand, looks up at this tired old house as he leads Vexen to the front door.

"Thanks for the meal," He mumbles stupidly as he fumbles for his key, all too aware of Marluxia's presence behind him. The man is just too damned _attractive_, that boyish face just beginning to mature with the lines of middle age, every burning look from those crystal clear eyes sending Vexen into some crazy kind of mental break down. And he barely even knows Mr Harcélle: they met three days ago in a florist's shop that Marluxia just happened to own and suddenly he's looking at Vexen and smiling like he wants to just drag him up to a convenient bedroom and commit unspeakable things with him, probably for quite some time.

"Thank you for accompanying me," Marluxia retorts, lingering in the porch even after he's slipped into the hall. Vexen turns back and studies him, carefully. So he's attractive. He's interesting. He's even, God forbid it, rather humorous, in his own sweet narcissistic way. Just looking at him brings a strangely familiar curl to Vexen's gut, one he's hardly felt since women and marriage and divorce.

"Yes," He says, "It was very pleasant."

Marluxia smiles again.

"Your eyes tell a different story."

And that's just the thing about Marluxia; he just _knows_; maybe he's highly observant, maybe he's psychic, or _maybe_ he feels the same way...

Vexen blushes and recedes further into his darkened hall.

"I'll call you."

Marluxia sighs a little, but - sadly - he seems to understand, stepping away.

"Sleep well, Vexen Carlisle."

Vexen watches his beautiful stranger walk away. He can't let this opportunity slide just because he's a hopeless middle aged divorcee, not when they both knew the only reason why they ate together at all was for the sex, not when Marluxia Francis Harcélle of Floraison Sur Floristry is so stunningly wonderful and charismatic and witty and just the kind of man you could end up arguing with for hours and kissing furiously in seconds and basically just downright fucking _sexy_.

"Wait-"

It happens in a flash. Vexen thinks that he hears a laugh and then strong hands have a firm hold on his shoulders and Marluxia is kissing him, just insistent pecks at first but soon gaining ground, hands roaming to all kinds of inappropriate places. Vexen feels his knees buckle and his throat give out something like a moan, but he still manages to be snarky when Marluxia pulls back momentarily for breath.

"I wasn't aware that I'd become your property."

The small number of men that Vexen has slept with since the divorce would have been affronted, even offended by that: but Marluxia just chuckles and lets his fingers slip further down beneath Vexen's belt.

"I'm sorry, I must have forgotten to mention it."

Vexen tries to say something equally witty like "Well, I'd like prior warning next time" or "I'll let you off just this once", but Marluxia kisses all of the words out of him again before he gets the chance. And when he finally pulls back again there are more important things to consider than retribution, like shutting the front door and leading Marluxia upstairs to bed.

"I take it you live alone."

"Of course."

Marluxia makes no further comment until they're in Vexen's bedroom, a sparse affair with solid, functional furniture and a just a few decorations scattered here and there. Marluxia inspect the decor momentarily, but it doesn't fascinate him greatly: he's more interested in tossing Vexen onto the bed and cheerfully removing his clothes and giving him embarrassing love bites.

"You look tired," He says quite suddenly, like Vexen hasn't been furiously attempting to pull open the buttons on his shirt; but he catches the mischievous glint in the younger man's eye, so he just shakes his head, pretending that he isn't smiling too.

"Oh, fine. You can do all the work."

Marluxia smiles and shoves Vexen a little further onto the bed so he can climb on after him, pulling his smart trousers away and groping at his buttocks. Damn it, Marluxia just needs to be naked right now (he's not doing a bad job of getting there, managing to pull off his shirt and vest with only one hand, but it's just not _enough_) and forcing Vexen into some kind of delirious stupor.

"Are we not going to talk about this?"

"Of course not," Vexen says, hoping that he sounds sultry rather than just petulant. "There are far better things you could be doing with your mouth."

"You _are_ a curious one," Marluxia says even as he manoeuvres Vexen into a more accessible position. "I like that."

Vexen just grunts in response and fires off something that's either a smouldering look or a perturbed glare, loops his arms around Marluxia's neck, and pulls him rather forcibly down to reacquaint himself with the other man's mouth. Marluxia is certainly not disinclined to play, his hands pressing against Vexen's skin in all kinds of ways that make him tingle, ending up with one palm against his hip, the other resting on the trail of hair by Vexen's crotch.

"Still not talking?"

"I'm pretty sure the condoms in the top drawer are still in date," Vexen manages, "There's some other things in there that might come in handy, too."

Oh, come on. Vexen is _how_ old, exactly, and has been openly gay for _how_ long, and he still can't bring himself to say the word "lube"? But Marluxia doesn't seem to hold it against him, simply sliding in all his flawless nudity to Vexen's bedside table and rummaging around in amongst the bookmarks and medication and rubber bands for protection, finally pulling two packets out, one of which he flings to Vexen.

"There you go."

"You seem awfully unconcerned by any of this," Vexen says without really thinking as Marluxia uses his teeth to open the condom, his hands still finding new places to make Vexen groan.

"Should I be concerned?"

For a moment Vexen thinks that he's gone too far, that Marluxia might come to the conclusion that he's got AIDs or something now, but thankfully the man _still_ looks amused, so he just sighs a little, turning away as though that would stop Marluxia seeing his blush.

"I'm not used to all of this."

"You do hook up, right?"

"Occasionally," Vexen snaps, but adds in a more softer voice; "But… Damn you, you're turning me into a hopeless teenager all over again."

Marluxia laughs, reaches down to cup Vexen's chin between his forefinger and thumb, and for a moment he looks like he's going to share some sweet words of comfort, but then he very deliberately closes his hand around Vexen's hardening cock, still smiling, and only leans down to kiss him again once he's had the satisfaction of witnessing Vexen gasp and squirm at his touch.

"I think it's cute," He says between affectionate kisses, settling into a rhythm of stroking that Vexen can handle, all the while pressing just a little needily against Vexen's legs. Vexen, for all his faults, manages to reach out to Marluxia and hold him in return, feeling the heat of his body draw closer and the pace of his breaths rise, just like sex _ought_ to be once Vexen's got over the awkwardness of having a stranger dribbling lubrication over his stomach. And when Marluxia speaks again the lazy amusement is gone, replaced by something more anxious, more wanting. "Are we still not going to talk about this?"

Vexen lets out a groan.

"Just be inside of me, okay."

… Which is probably the least romantic precursor to copulation in the history of sex, but Marluxia doesn't need telling twice, laughing breathlessly and reaching down to lick at Vexen's chest a little, rocking their bodies together for a few moments before carefully pushing himself in.

Oh.

Oh God.

So this is what it feels like to feel such a devastating attraction towards another man, to trust him so completely and to reap such rewards, to scrabble at the muscles on his back for better hold to experience that bitter, blinding ache so perfectly, gasping in lungfuls of air tinted slightly with the scent of flowers, hardly even realising what's going on bar the pounding of blood in his ears and the fire in his gut. He feels the sensation of orgasm flood over him just as Marluxia begins to lose control, crying out with something like lust and falling back into the crumbled bedsheets, struggling for breath. Marluxia, looking decidedly dishevelled and all the more attractive for it, soon joins him, his chest rising and falling quickly as he regains his composure.

"I like you," He says eventually, turning his head to watch Vexen with those same brilliant eyes. Vexen pretends like he didn't grasp a hold of Marluxia's hand some moments ago, and pretends even harder that he didn't give it a meaningful squeeze at Marluxia's words.

"Yes," He replies shortly, perhaps a little affectionately. And when watching each other's surprised, red faces for a moment, they both turn to watch the blank white canvas of a ceiling instead. Marluxia makes no attempt to move: neither does Vexen. Eventually, though, he sits up with a grunt and begins to gather up his clothes. Vexen has a brilliant idea in his head that he should roll over and trap Marluxia on the bed, effectively forcing him to stay the night, but all he can muster is a pathetic little half-flop onto the younger man's lap.

"You can stay here tonight, if you like."

Marluxia smiles, and twists with a little effort to pull Vexen into the loose limbs of an embrace. It may be autumn, but there's no requirement for cover, at least not yet.

"I was hoping you might say that."

"Hm."

They make themselves comfortable, at least until hygiene prevails and Vexen directs Marluxia to the bathroom, and then they climb into bed and Vexen reads for a while and Marluxia lies still against his back, like they're some old married couple and Marluxia is a lot more than just a beautiful stranger.


	2. Hook Up Number Two: The Lasagne

They exchange email addresses (because texting is too mainstream, or something), and enjoy some rather flirtatious exchanges where Marluxia poses all sorts of personal questions and Vexen expresses his doubts as to whether or not the man actually has a company to run. It amuses Vexen a little (and _really_ amuses his colleagues when they stumble across one of the less appropriate emails), but it's not until a few weeks later when he's rummaging around in his vegetable drawer for a decent onion that Marluxia actually calls him again.

"Are you allergic to whipped cream?"

Vexen groans.

"I think you've got the wrong number, Marluxia."

On the end of the phone, he hears Marluxia laugh.

"Oh, I disagree."

"Why the call?" Vexen asks, finally locating an onion. "Were you having trouble translating the sound of directionless thrusting into the romantic alphabet?"

"Oh, it wasn't the thrusting that was the issue," Marluxia retorts idly, "But you just can't capture the complexity of orgasm in twenty six letters."

"Yes, you can," Vexen says, and pulls his mobile out, emailing "asdfghjkl" to Marluxia. Moments later Marluxia, apparently receiving this message, laughs.

"Very clever."

"You should see my PhD."

Marluxia doesn't have a witty reply to this, apparently; he just laughs again and pauses momentarily before changing the subject. It's hardly even necessary: Vexen knows what his ultimate proposal will be.

"Google Earth tells me that we only live ten minutes away from each other by car."

That can't be more than four or five miles, Vexen muses as, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, he finds a chopping board and a knife and begins slicing his freshly washed carrot.

"How stunningly convenient."

"I take it from the sharpness of your tongue that you're still sober."

"Trust me, it only gets sharper when I'm drunk."

"That I would like to see," Marluxia quips. God, Vexen thinks, the two of them could banter for hours about nothing at all (which they have, in fact, already accomplished; most of their dinner date was comprised of subtly insulting each other in ever more discreet and ingenious ways).

"I doubt that just seeing my tongue is the only thing you're interested in."

Marluxia hums thoughtfully as though he hasn't noticed the innuendo, but then he seems to tire of idle chatter, because the next thing he says is "So, are you busy tonight?"

Vexen is about to say no when he realises that he has a lot more than a "not busy" carrot in his hands.

"I'm cooking," he admits instead, and dons his reading glasses for the misery that is dicing onions. "Lasagne. But I could do a double portion and bring it over."

Jesus Christ, how old is Vexen again? Ninety?

"You're adorable," Marluxia says, and doesn't sound like he's joking.

"I promise it'll be edible. Do you have an oven?"

Marluxia laughs. "As little as I use it, yes."

Vexen, ignoring this worrying admission from Marluxia (because no matter what microwave manuals and modern convention says, you can't cook without ovens), makes some quick calculations; assembly will take twenty minutes, plus ten minutes to find Marluxia's house, five for faffing and five for getting lost...

"I can be there in about forty minutes."

"That'll give me time to clear the worst of the paperwork away-"

"-And run out and get condoms-"

"-Oh darling, I'm already prepared in that department."

"I shudder to consider why," Vexen intones sarcastically, but Marluxia is laughing again.

"You can find your own way, I trust?"

"I'm sure the sat nav won't let me down."

And sure enough, half an hour or so (and quite a bit more banter as Vexen chops vegetables and fries mince) later he's arriving at an attractive red-brick apartment building, a foil-covered lasagne in tow. Looking up at the rows of windows, he makes a calculated guess where Marluxia lives: the flat with the balcony overrun with flowerpots. Shaking his head at how terribly cliché their whole affair is (if two hook ups, dinner out and a lasagne could equate to an affair), he takes the lasagne in hand and climbs the stairs to the third floor to apartment 3A. Vexen swallows his last doubts, and knocks. Thankfully, it is Marluxia (in a leaf-pattern dressing gown, no less) who opens the door, kisses his cheek and ushers him in.

"An easy journey?"

"I took one of the back roads, actually. It was marginally longer, but I didn't want to get caught in traffic."

"Eager to see me, then," Marluxia says in a horribly self-satisfied voice, made both worse and better by the fact that his palm is already resting very firmly on Vexen's lower back, its trajectory unequivocally pointing south.

"I couldn't wait," Vexen intones dully, pretending that he isn't smiling. Marluxia leads him by his bottom to the kitchen, where the finishing touches are applied to the uncooked lasagne before its entry to Marluxia's little oven, which seems like more of a decoration than a genuinely useful appliance. Then wine is poured and Marluxia's comfortable sofa is occupied for more idle conversation that soon becomes light-hearted foreplay, because apparently Marluxia is some kind of gay vampire, incapable of being within a three foot radius of Vexen without going for his neck.

"Oh, stop that," Vexen huffs at Marluxia's unsubtle advances, batting the younger man away. But the effort is so vague as to be barely nonexistent and ends up with Vexen's hands finding a firm grip on Marluxia's shoulderblades, _under_ his shirt of all things, and then he suddenly doesn't feel so inclined to move. Marluxia kisses his lips, his chin, follows the line of his jaw, and Vexen finds himself mumbling appropriate encouragements as his fingers pop open the businessman's starched shirt. Vexen knows exactly where this is going, and exactly which carefully prepared lasagne is going to burn to a cinder if they let themselves be distracted, but somehow he can't bring himself to care, not when Marluxia's muscles move beneath his skin and lift him effortlessly into his arms for more kissing, nudity and generally inappropriate behaviour. The way Marluxia's got Vexen against the back of the sofa, arms looped around his waist, is almost like they're cuddling. Vexen engages in occasional idle flirtation, and sometimes goes as far as to hook up, but he does not _cuddle_. Except, apparently, he does now. Marluxia makes a good cuddlemate: he's warm and solid, heavy under a slight sheen of fat that protects Vexen from any sharp bones, and everything about his now naked body is just crying out to be touched, in one way or another.

Vexen squirms when Marluxia dips down to lick at his nipple, feigning discomfort, but he doesn't fool the other man, who just grins devilishly and sets about reducing Vexen to messy puddles rather lower down.

"Oh, come on, Ma-ah!-rluxia, this really isn't the time for-"

Vexen doesn't even know why he bothers. Maybe it's because Marluxia knows what he wants whatever lies he squeaks through gritted teeth, which in some respects feels like a strange kind of intimacy (although somewhere in the back of his mind that can still think straight, Vexen wonders if Marluxia would get the hint if he really _didn't_ want the sex). Maybe it's just so see Marluxia smile in that way that says everything Vexen just can't put into words.

"It's _always_ time for this," The florist says petulantly, and proceeds to deliver the most incredible blow job Vexen has ever had the pleasure of receiving.

And after that he really_ is_ a messy puddle, so Marluxia carries him into the kitchen and drops him down on a cushioned dining chair, pouring more wine and laying a somewhat overcooked lasagne on the table.

"Is this a dinner date?" He asks as he lays out plates and cutlery. "I feel rather underdressed."

This is true: he is still naked. Vexen almost stops him as he leaves for his bedroom, but his brain seems to have disconnected from his mouth somewhere between telling Marluxia not to suck him off and telling Marluxia that sucking him off is the _best idea in the history of ever_. He doesn't need to worry, though: because when Marluxia returns he is in exactly the same state of dress, only wearing a tie.

Vexen gently acquaints his head with the table.

"Oh my God, Marluxia, you are so immature."

"How can I be immature? I'm wearing a tie."

Now that he's looking a little more carefully, Vexen can see that Marluxia's cheeks are a little more than just flushed from their recent encounter. Well. He's not going to complain if tipsy Marluxia is synonymous with naked Marluxia, even if it is an extremely strange experience dining without clothes. He does propose to get dressed again once: but Marluxia gives him a rather disbelieving look and asks whether Vexen honestly believes that they're not just going to head straight to his bedroom as soon as the lasagne is gone.

Marluxia, as it turns out, is not wrong.


End file.
